Her first priority was to replenish her supplies. Empty-handed, she'd take whatever she could get: clothing, money, food. Some things, such as her canteen, were going to be harder to replace. Others were irreplaceable.
The photograph. Knowing she would never see it again, her heart seized.
She took a breath. Released it. Took another. Released it. She didn't need the picture. Her father's face was forever burned into her memories. She had only to close her eyes to see that wide, handsome smile. And once she had the paper and pencil to do so, she would draw it from memory.
Chapter 6
Preacher pulled his motorcycle off the quiet highway, slowing to a stop. Toeing his kickstand down, he pushed his goggles up over his head and eyed the nearly empty parking lot. Aside from a beet-red Plymouth Avenger, they had the place to themselves.
Glancing up at the dark gray sky, he guessed it was around four or five in the morning. His thoughts wandered back to his apartment, where his watch was sitting on top of his dresser. He hadn't bothered putting it on before he'd left. Time was for men who had something to do.
Shivering violently behind him, the girl gripped his shoulders and attempted climbing down. She hadn't ever ridden on a motorcycle before; her death grip on his middle had told him as much. And with her wet and torn clothing and lack of protective eyewear, he couldn't imagine a less enjoyable first ride.
Slim, wind-reddened hands removed the helmet he'd given her to wear, revealing a matted mass of messy, knotted hair. Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned in a slow circle, surveying the area with a calculating, determined eye.
He'd been right about her-there was no doubt in his mind that she was a street rat. And if he hadn't already guessed as much at first glance, the fact that she'd sat on the side of the road in the dead of night, in the pouring rain no less, and hadn't complained once would have told him she was used to shit conditions such as this.
"I'm gonna get a room," he said. Standing, he swung his duffel over his shoulder. "You want to grab a shower and some shut-eye, you're welcome to it."
• • •
The motel offered your standard middle-of-nowhere room, with dark brown wall paneling and a yellowed popcorn ceiling. Two beds were stationed to the right, with a small night table nestled between them. A lime green rotary phone, a small flip clock, and a cheap-looking lamp covered the table.
A square, squat table sat on the left side of the room with one rickety-looking chair. A short ways back stood an antique-looking desk with a small television on top. And near the very back of the room, by the bathroom, was a six-drawer dresser that looked nice enough to have been taken straight from someone's home.
Keeping the door propped open with his boot, Preacher tossed the key onto the bed closest to him and gestured for the girl to enter.
She turned sideways as she slid inside, being especially careful not to brush up against him.
Jesus, did she think he was a half-crazed lunatic just waiting for the right moment to pounce on her?
"You want the first shower?" he asked. Taking a seat, he kicked off his boots. Next, he peeled off his waterlogged socks and grimaced at the sight of his cold, red feet.
"You go ahead."
Preacher glanced up and found the girl pressed against a wall, arms wrapped around herself. Catching her gaze, he lifted an eyebrow, and she looked away quickly.
Whatever. Preacher didn't need to be told twice. Cold, wet, and miserable, he headed for the bathroom.
Shut inside the tiny space, he carefully slid out of his jacket and began cautiously probing around his shoulder and arm. He could move it well enough, bend it just fine, but he had one hell of an ugly bruise starting to form. He continued poking the swollen skin, guessing that he had some minor muscle damage, too. He rolled his eyes. It was a good thing Red swung like a girl or else he'd be nursing a broken bone right now.
As he moved toward the shower, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and paused. Bloodshot eyes and a menacing scowl stared back at him. His riding goggles were half hidden in his mess of tangled hair.
His scowl bled slowly into a smile.
He did, in fact, look like a half-crazed lunatic.
Chapter 7
Wrapped in a towel, she took a seat on the edge of the tub and sniffed at her shoulder, inhaling the fresh, sharp scent of her skin. Then her hair, breathing in the citrusy scent. Quick cleanups with bars of soap in public bathrooms could hardly compare to hot showers and actual shampoo.
On the shower rod above her dangled her freshly scrubbed clothing. Most of the buttons on her flannel were missing, and her T-shirt had been torn open several inches down the middle. Two pathetic strips of stained cotton covered in holes were all that remained of her socks.